


First Round

by lifeinwords



Category: The OC
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:00:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeinwords/pseuds/lifeinwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a connection between Ryan and Luke that has nothing to do with Marissa, and everything to do with the satisfying thud of fist on face. Post-Model Home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Round

“Get in,” Luke mutters out the half-down window. Ryan shakes his head a little to understand what that means. His ears are still ringing.

The freeway seems made of spots of light and dark. Ryan follows the only constant—the metal stream of guardrails keeping pace with the truck. He can feel Luke, this great hulking presence four feet away.

Ryan winces as he presses his face to the cold glass window. It’ll do till he gets back to the Cohens and their ice machine. Luke's face as he threw that first punch is clear in his mind, vicious and triumphant. Ryan's head snapping right, his half-open mouth closing over words and into tongue and cheek is just as vivid. The blood's still seeping slowly, and he chokes the hot taste down.

Swallowing reminds his throat of the fire: it burns like when he first started smoking, and he tries to breathe through it, feeling the twinge under his aching ribs. He’s exhausted, but still has the energy to glare at Luke, who shifts restlessly.

“What? Fuck you, man, you started it.”

Ryan's fingers twitch, but he relaxes them slowly. “I don’t remember saying ‘hey, after this beer, let’s go beat up the new kid. That’d be fun.’”

Luke’s hands clench on the steering wheel and he pulls the truck over slowly, flicks on his hazard lights and turns his head. The blinking yellow lights wash over his face, distracting Ryan. On, off. There, not.

“You just can’t leave it alone. I said all I wanted to say before—just stay the fuck away from my girlfriend.”

Ryan's eyes keep wanting to close. Even though the air conditioning is blasting, his skin feels too warm and too tight, the leather of the seats too slick on his skin.

“Whatever, man. I didn’t…she came to me." Ryan narrows his eyes and leans in. "You’re the one who thinks kicking my ass proves you have a dick.”

The seconds click by in slow motion. Ryan tenses, watches Luke lunge straight for his neck. Fingers dig underneath layers of cloth and smoke, and all Ryan can see is the afterblur of smacking his head into the window.

His hands come up in fists, but Luke is dragging him down the seat to get a better angle, shifting in to increase the pressure. When his head clears and he can hear himself breathing again, Luke's face is pressed right up to his, eyes dark and furious.

“You think she wants you? You think she’d get her hands dirty, touching you? You’re nothing.” Ryan lays there frozen for a moment, fingers loose over Luke's. Then he plants his feet and shoves, quickly, arching his back and breaking Luke's hold.

“Get off—”

The windows fog up as they struggle and slide on the seat till they're locked together, grunting and pushing, too close to swing.

“Wanna go again—kick your ass—fuckin’ punk from Chino—” Luke jabs an elbow into Ryan's stomach on the last word, and Ryan groans. He's beginning to think pushing his ride home into beating him up some more wasn’t his most well-thought-out plan.

They’re so close Ryan can smell Luke’s breath, warm and bitter from beer. His neck hurts, and there’s no room to pull away from Luke's fist cracking against his bottom ribs. Another elbow to his side backs Ryan up against the dash, where he loses his balance and flails. Arms crush around Ryan's waist and he yells in pain. Cheap tackle, nowhere to go but down.

They hit the seat, and Ryan feels like he’s drowning in Luke: his arms are thick and scratchy where they press into Ryan’s wrists and throat; his sweat drips down onto Ryan’s face and stings his eyes; and his face looms until it fills Ryan’s view with bared teeth, mouth open on a curse.

“Fucking stop, man-“ Ryan hates that his voice is shaking. He jerks to the left, straining up to keep himself on the seat; but he keeps falling until Luke’s legs clamp down to hold him on the seat. His head swinging in mid-air, hair brushing the footwell, Ryan jerks at the seams and rivets digging into his hip and thigh.

Ryan grits his teeth and wills himself into action: adrenaline should be pumping through his body; he should be wired and so alert he can feel the next punch before it comes. But Luke’s squeezing his neck, bearing down until Ryan’s eyes feel like they’re bugging out of his head, and all he can think is air, air.

His hand slips down the seat, fingers scrabbling at the leather and finding no purchase. Sounds become clearer as his vision fades: tires on pavement, a horn honking, even the ticking of the hazard lights. No one will stop to help.

Ryan makes a choked sound and lashes out with his feet.

"Shit! Oh, that’s it, you—” Luke rears up and hits his head on the ceiling of the cab, and Ryan inhales just enough to let out a yell.

Luke recoils, startled, and that’s a mistake. It gives Ryan just enough room to scrabble up onto the seat, using his legs and Luke's weight to launch himself forward. Another deep breath takes him to Luke’s chest, and Ryan works his fists in the space between the seatback and Luke's open side.

The pleasure hits him in a rush—he’s getting some of his own back, now, feeling the muscles go tight and shuddering under his skin. He knows this. Knows how to play this.

He tangles his fingers in soft cotton and slams Luke back into the window, grunting out, “How do you like it.” The words scrape Ryan’s throat until tears well in his eyes, and his voice is hoarse and unrecognizable. His hipbones are bruising on Luke’s and they’re grappling more than punching, now, flinging their weight together again and again. Luke’s gasping as much as Ryan, and his arms move like they're weighted. Ryan catches his fists easily, and all he can smell is smoke and cologne, the saltwater and car leather hazed over.

The fighting’s grown desperate, like it’s about more than Marissa, more than Ryan moving in on Luke’s territory. They’re not fighting about a girl—they’re fighting about something else, something Ryan doesn’t have a name for and won’t have to think about as long as they’re moving, thrashing and getting nowhere.

His arms are getting weaker, and Luke’s pinned him down somehow so he can’t wriggle away but neither of them can let loose enough to hurt. Ryan wrenches an arm free for a moment and pushes against the door, moves them across the seat but Luke's too heavy, he can't breathe—

“The fuck?”

And they collapse, relaxing onto the seat, the leather squeaking as they pant and shudder. Ryan can feel his heart pounding. He wants to spit out the taste of burnt wood and concrete that’s coating his mouth, clogging his lungs until they burn.

He doesn’t say anything, just squeezes his eyes shut and lays there, limp. Can’t figure out how to untangle the knot they’ve become. His legs are shaking. Luke slides a hand out from under his head, watch catching on Ryan’s hair.

“Ow.”

“Oh. Um, sorry.”

“Jesus.”

His brain won’t work, can’t figure out how this happened. Not like wrestling with his brother for the remote. Not like fighting the assholes on his block, knuckles bruised and everything clean once blood’s on it. This is harder, sharper, something.

This is.

He sighs and blinks, closing his eyes tight against the new pain. This is Luke being an asshole and Ryan being an idiot, as usual. No need to make more of it than that. He swallows once, working his swollen jaw to get the words out.

“Just take me back.”


End file.
